


The One and Only

by ruanyu



Series: All Things Counter [8]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Apologies, Coda, Confessions, HEA, M/M, Mention of torture, Protective Steve Rogers, Sappy Ending, Tony Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:01:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7284649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruanyu/pseuds/ruanyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next morning, the sun shone into a nondescript room far away from anywhere familiar, shone upon two men who were not heroes or villains, who had laid aside their weapons and their defenses, whose love had survived centuries. </p><p> This time was what they had to regain what they could have had in the past. Bucky would fight to make sure every morning would affirm their bond, affirm what did not need to be spoken. He would fight to hold them together, despite all that he knew would work to pull them apart. The wars still to be fought, and the dangers yet to be vanquished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One and Only

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final story in the All Things Counter series, a coda of sorts.

_All my past lives they got nothing on me_  
_Golden eagle you're the one and only_  
_Flying high through the cities and the sky_  
_I take you way back, cover centuries_

BØRNS - Past Lives

Bucky had taken to waking up early to treasure the moments before the day began. To be in the silence when he did not have to explain. He would be awake already when the sun flooded into the bedroom, watching as the bars of white light reached through the blinds and became rays that erased the lines and worry that touched his lover’s features even when he was sleeping. Steve would wake up to find him silently watching, and grumble something about morning people, before asking blearily if there was coffee. Bucky would steal a kiss and grin when Steve protested and pushed him away, told him to at least wait until he brushed his teeth. Mornings held the minutes when Bucky did not have to speak, did not have to explain, when everything was understood. When his daemon was warm and comfortable and content. It was only when they left the room that the magic ended, and anxiety and fear of the new day stretching ahead took its place.

This morning was empty. Bucky woke up to nobody at his side, so he closed his eyes again, because he was not a morning person really, he only woke up early for one reason, and since that reason was not here, he’d sleep to make the time go faster.  
It was almost noon when he rolled over in the bed, extending his arm into the empty, empty space at his side. Lobo whined at him, fretful, worried. He blinked the heaviness from his eyes, his head aching from too much sleep. Time was dragging, slow and achingly lonely. “Jarvis. Is Steve not back yet?” 

There was a long pause. Bucky frowned. Jarvis usually responded immediately. “No, sir,” the voice said, at last. “Not yet.”

The people in charge had asked for one last mission. Tie up some loose ends before you leave for your little road trip. Steve, of course, had said he had to do this, compelled by that need to lead, to be there. He said that it would only take a few days, and Bucky had not objected. He did not want to be in a situation were he asked Steve to choose between him and his ever present sense of duty. He feared what the outcome of that choice might be. 

“I can’t come with you?” he’d dared to ask, even though he knew he could not be trusted enough to be sent out with the team. The question was the closest he could get to a declaration of his feelings: _I would if I could, I want to fight at your side again._ He soothed Arden, who was clinging to his shoulder a little too tightly, and she nipped his finger to give him a better distraction. She, like Steve, knew what he needed better than he did. 

“There’s nothing I would want more, Buck. When it’s time,” Steve said, seriously, and his eyes said: _it would be time, soon enough. They’d make sure of it._ And if that was not the best motivation for him to put his all into becoming well enough, body and soul, Bucky did not know what was. 

Steve had kissed him goodbye in front of the team, without shame, ignoring the catcalls, and Bucky, overcoming his discomfort with displays of affection, had not pulled away. “I’ll be back soon,” Steve had promised. 

Natasha had given Bucky a speaking look, as much as saying: _I’ll protect him. I’ll make sure he comes back to you._ And he’d nodded, grateful, hiding his helpless anger at being left behind like a storybook damsel waiting at the shore for her sailor lover to return, the words he did not speak a loop in his mind: Come back safe.

 

When Steve finally came home, it was already late afternoon, and Bucky, who had not managed to eat anything until then, was picking listlessly at leftovers in front of the TV. He did not want to have to lie when Steve asked if he had eaten. Steve had an uncanny ability to detect his lies.

Bucky heard the front door open, but Steve did not call out a greeting. Jarvis did not unnecessarily inform him that Captain Rogers was home. Something was off. Bucky’s unease only deepened when Steve appeared in the doorway in civilian clothes. “Hey,” he said, subdued, not even close to his usual put on enthusiasm, just a neutral greeting. _Had he been at the hospital? Had one of the others been wounded? Killed?_

Bucky wanted to jump up, rush over, make sure Steve was okay. Instead, he reached for the remote and turned off the news that was turned on in the background in case the super secret mission went wrong and ended up in the headlines. “Hey yourself,” he said, cautiously. 

He was aware that Arden had not flown to him as she usually did, instead hopping onto a high perch, where she went when she felt unsure, anxious. He scanned Steve’s features, but couldn’t decipher what was wrong, only that his ambivalent expression that did not speak of his happiness to be home.

When Steve walked into the room Lobo got to his feet, expecting to be petted, to be greeted, but Steve passed by without touching him, going to sit in the closest armchair. Lobo paced, anxiously, looking to Arden, but was not forthcoming when Bucky reached out to him. _Do you know what’s wrong?_

 _Let him tell you,_ was all his uncooperative daemon would give him. 

Steve cleared his throat, wearing his most Captain America expression, stern and distant. “Buck. We need to talk.” 

“Are the others okay?” Bucky asked, worry more transparent than he meant it to. 

Steve nodded. “Fine. It’s not…” He hesitated, and then seemed to decide to just say what he had to say: “Stark told me.”

Bucky froze. “He…” His voice failed and he couldn’t have said a word even if he could think of what to say. 

“Yes,” Steve said, quieter now. “He confessed.” And that explained the stillness, the restraint. It was how Steve handled anger, how he kept his superhuman strength from becoming a dangerous conduit for rage. Arden swooped down now, settled on the arm of the armchair, and Steve stroked her almost absently, his gaze distant. “They had prisoners at the base. Some of them had been tortured. And Stark…he could not look at them, Buck. He was falling apart.” 

Bucky remembered Thea’s advice to let the past go whenever he could. They’d gone for a walk a few days ago, her daemon padding after them, still exuding the contented happiness that made Lobo sulk. He still thought that much joy was suspicious. Let things go. It sounded so easy. Stark had not been able to let go, anymore than he had. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Buck?” Steve asked quietly, into the strained silence. What hurt most was that his voice held not only the pain of learning what had happened, but bewilderment at the lack of trust it betrayed. “Why?”

“I…I couldn’t,” was all the reply Bucky could manage, and it was as simple as that. He could not pit the two people who held this team together against each other. And he understood why Stark had done what he had done. 

Steve studied him. “Bruce said you thought Stark was justified. Do you still think that?” 

Bucky shifted. “No,” he said, but it was unconvincing, too hasty. He immediately wished he had taken his time, considered his reply, because Steve’s eyes went flat and dark and wrong and he stood up abruptly, working out the agitation in movement. “I saw red when Bruce told me. To be told you thought you deserved…that, after everything you’ve been through.” His fists clenched, and Bucky saw the quickly fading marks on his knuckles, too recent to have been from the mission. Steve must have been back a while ago. Jarvis must have been instructed not to tell him. 

“Is Stark alright?” Bucky asked, after a beat. 

“He’ll live,” Steve replied, brusquely, a grim hardness in his voice that did not belong there. Then, when he saw Bucky’s expression, he took a long slow breath and exhaled, visibly calmed himself. “Bruce was there. He made us talk…in a more civilized way than with our fists.” 

Bucky could imagine. Let’s all sit down and talk about how to deal with our problem. In this case, him. “Bruce does that well, doesn’t he?” he murmured, realizing even as he spoke that there was a bitter undertone to what he said and that it was unfair. 

Steve almost allowed himself a flinch at the caustic tone. “You could have told me. What is the point of this if you don’t trust me?”

“I do, Steve,” Bucky said, more softly. “I trust you too much. That’s the problem.” He walked over, reached for Steve’s hand, gently moved invulnerable metal across the too vulnerable, if quickly healing, bruised knuckles. “I knew what would happen, and I did not want this ugliness between you and Stark.” The fragility of this strange family was balanced in the two of them, and he would not, could not be what broke them. “The others need you both. And you need them.” 

Steve looked at him, a frown notched between his brows, earnestness in his eyes. “I need you to understand, Buck. You come first. Do you understand that? You’ve always come first for me.” 

Bucky could not deny the feelings that rushed through him at those words, gratitude, and affection, and overwhelming, unspoken, expansive love for this man who had stood by his side since he was a confused boy who needed a friend. He nodded. “I understand Steve. But then, you should know that I need them as much as you do. Because you need them, and you come first for me too.” 

He waited, hoped those words were enough to convince Steve that what was broken could be healed. “Forgive him then,” Steve said, finally. “But he has to ask for that forgiveness.” 

Bucky did not doubt he would. If Stark had been unable to look at the tortured prisoners, he was still as wracked with guilt as he had been. And Bucky knew enough about guilt, the bitterness of it, to know it came back even after you had done everything in your power to bury it. It always came back. 

 

Bucky was right. Stark said nothing when he came to see them off with the others, but then he followed them down to the garage where they would pick up the car he had insisted they take, because it had all they needed, he said. Just in case. Bucky didn’t quite understand, but just at that moment he had another, more pressing question. 

“Does it…uhm…fly?” he asked, walking around the perfectly normal looking vehicle with Steve. He had imagined something that was neither car nor plane but a streamlined future hybrid that looked like it could fly to the moon and back. The car was lovingly polished to perfection, but solid, dependable, wheels firmly in place on the ground. Lobo nosed at the wheels curiously. 

“Are you kidding me?” Stark asked. “It just goes very very fast, which is what cars should do. Cars are cars, planes are planes. Even Pops admitted a hovering car was a foolish notion in later life.” He stopped, hands in pockets, and inspected his father’s work critically, like an enthusiast at a classic car exhibition. Bucky recognized the eye-avoidance tactic, though it was admirably done here. His daemon was on his shoulder, clinging, giving away his agitation with her quick head movements. Stark’s eyes were hidden behind unnecessary sunglasses and there was a bruise on his face that had not been there the last time Bucky had seen him. And yet he was managing to pull off his blasé act. 

It took a few minutes of tense silence for him to pivot, to look in Bucky’s direction. “I’ve thought about it, and decided I have to apologise to you before you leave,” he said, abruptly. The disguising of this vulnerable moment of humility into a magnanimous gesture spoke for itself. Stark was afraid. 

“No, you don’t,” Bucky said, in the light tone he had adopted to put Steve at ease. He hoped it would work with Stark too. He did not want to have this conversation, not now. 

“Let him say what he needs to say, Buck,” Steve said. Arden bristled on his shoulder, conveying the remnants of hostility. 

“I’m sorry,” Stark said, awkward but sincere, letting them see beyond his mask for once. “I…I just needed answers, but that’s no excuse. Nothing excuses what I did. I wanted…needed you to know that, so that you would know you will be protected here. No matter what you did in your time as the Soldier.” 

He was standing very still, uncharacteristically silent and watchful. What there was between Steve and Stark was more like the rivalry of competitive siblings, but all the more easily tripped into violence because they shared a hard-headed nature. Bucky looked between them, glanced at the mark on Stark’s face. “You did that?” he asked Steve. Steve was so very careful not to use his strength to hurt other, even to the extent of practicing his handshake. 

Steve shifted uncomfortably. “He held his own. My marks just faded faster. I kept out of your way until most of them were gone. Sorry.” Steve looked abashed, and Stark studied his expensive gleaming shoes, and Bucky felt strangely like laughing. They were like children who’d been discovered fighting in the playground and brought in to face the teacher. 

Stark looked up, turned to Bucky. “I just…I need you to know. I made weapons once, killed people. Nobody forced me to do that. And I know you were forced to do what you did.” 

Bucky shook his head. He had had enough of talking, enough of apologies. He stepped toward Stark and extended a hand wordlessly. He blinked, then immediately took it. “When you come back, we’ll welcome you to the team properly, Tik-Tok,” he said, with a half-smile. There was still pain in his eyes, but he was not looking to avenge anybody anymore. Forgiving, forgetting. Neither were ever really possible, only the determination to not allow the past to poison the future. 

“Look forward to it,” Bucky said, sincerely, remembering his courtesies, and to his surprise, meaning them. He wanted to see these people again. He wanted to visit Stark’s workroom again and this time watch him work, to drink tea with Bruce, and to listen to Thor’s stories, to sit in the mix of studious quiet and creative energy that surrounded Jane and Darcy, to talk to Clint about the guilt of surviving and the art of the sniper. These people were beginning to become important to him. Not quite as important as Steve, but important nonetheless. 

Stark did not wave them off as they left, but he made sure he had the last word anyway. As they sped away, Jarvis spoke up: “I am here if you require assistance.” 

Steve grinned. “Thanks Jarvis.” He looked at Bucky, eyes warm. “So, where to?” 

“Wherever,” Bucky said, leaning back, allowing himself a degree of relaxation that was new and welcome. “Anywhere.” They headed north, leaving the Tower and the past behind. They rolled the windows down. The air tasted of newness and the road extended before them. They had no particular destination in mind, and in that, was a world of freedom. 

 

The next morning, the sun shone into a nondescript room far away from anywhere familiar, shone upon two men who were not heroes or villains, who had laid aside their weapons and their defenses, whose love had survived centuries. This time was what they had to regain what they could have had in the past. Bucky would fight to make sure every morning would affirm their bond, affirm what did not need to be spoken. He would fight to hold them together, despite all that he knew would work to pull them apart. The wars still to be fought, and the dangers yet to be vanquished. 

He turned his head, gazed at Steve sleeping beside him. He knew Steve could not be anything but what he was in this world and had been in the world before, a leader of men, a fighter against injustice. Bucky could not take him away from that path. He would lose himself without a cause. This was just a welcome respite. Soon, they would have to pick up their weapons once more and return to the war that had spanned as many centuries as their story. 

Steve stirred and blinked awake slowly, raised his brows when he looked up to Bucky silently watching him. “You know that’s kind of creepy, don’t you?”

Bucky grinned but pulled back when Steve reached for him. He needed something first. He needed to make a pact. 

“Steve…” Bucky said. “Promise me something,”

“Anything I can,” he responded, with the same caution Bucky had once offered. 

“Promise you’ll return if they need you. And…that you will go back to them.”

He frowned, “You mean we will go back.”

Bucky considered, negotiated the doubts, the worries, and found that he wanted this, despite the darkness that lingered. “Yes.”

Steve nodded, seriously. “Then yes, I promise. And I told you, I’m keeping all my promises this time.” 

Bucky heard the unspoken words that followed: And since this time was all they had, they would make the best of it. This time was the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who took the time to read, especially those who left kudos, and most especially to those who have left wonderful encouraging comments. Hope you’ve enjoyed reading as much as I’ve enjoyed writing this :)


End file.
